


The Devil in You

by lolo313



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Sam, Drinking, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: Sam shows up, drunk, at Dean's motel room with something important to tell him.





	The Devil in You

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon-divergent from the start of Season 5.

            Dean works the key into the motel lock, kicks the door open, and flicks on the light. Greasy yellow scatters across the threadbare carpet and lumpy mattress. _Just the one_. He locks the door behind him and slumps onto the bed. He rolls his neck, working out the kinks, and kicks off his boots. His feet reek, but there’s no one there to say it.

            He showers, quick about it, even though he could take his time. _No need to skimp on the hot water_. He tries jacking off, hand working at his cock under the spray, but he stays limp and eventually gives up. He’s hungry, but too tired to think about going somewhere. He throws on a t-shirt and a reasonably clean pair of jeans. He hasn’t done laundry in a while, what with no one to remind him to.

            There’s half a six-pack on the table and Dean grabs one, cracks the top open. It’s lukewarm but he drinks half in one gulp. It plops, golden and heady, into his empty stomach. He falls just short of offering one to Sam before he remembers.

            Dean props the pillows up on the bed, leans his back against them, kicks his legs out. He grabs the remote from the nightstand, turns on the TV, surfing through channels. Nothing but news and infomercials. His eyes glaze over, not really watching. He’s happy for the noise, a sort of background hum to his thoughts. It makes things easier.

            It’s been about a month now.

            He’d enjoyed it, at first. The freedom, no responsibilities, no one to look out for. He’d felt liberated. But loneliness crept in, subtle and sudden as floodwaters. He’d never realized he was drowning till his head slipped beneath the surface.

            Dean flips open his phone, scrolls to Sam’s name. His finger hovers over the call button. He flicks his phone shut.

            Dean finishes his beer, then another. There’s a soft haze around his thoughts, a golden glow. Everything feels light and easy. The muscles in his shoulders relax, for the first time in what feels like years. A skin-flick pops up on the TV. Dean half-watches, bemused.

            He’s dozing when someone knocks on the door. _Probably housekeeping_ , but then he rolls over, looks at the clock, sees it’s after midnight. He awake, as awake as he can be, beer-slow and groggy. He wipes a line of drool off his chin, rubs at his eyes, and sits up. The knocking persists.

            “Hold your horses.” He’s a little unsteady on his feet, a sudden rush of blood to his head making him woozy. He leans against the wall till it passes. The knocking’s turned to pounding, and Dean grounds out a growl as he wrenches the door open to give whoever the _fuck_ it is a piece of his mind.

            The words die in his throat when he sees Sam.

            His clothes are wrinkled and stained, his hair a mess. His eyes stare bloodshot at him—he hasn’t shaved, it seems, in over a week. He leans heavy against the doorframe, like he’ll collapse if he doesn’t. Dean’s knuckles go white where he’s gripping the knob.

            “Hey, Dean.” Sam offers him a sad smile as he slumps inside, shoulder brushing Dean’s. He can smell the whiskey doing push-ups on his breath, rolling off of him in waves. Dean nearly gags. He watches Sam, watches his face sweep to take in the sorry state of his life. His eyes linger on the bed. “Was the Four Seasons full?”

            “Sam, what are you doing here?” Dean doesn’t, can’t, look at him, boring a hole instead through a stain in the wall. He keeps his voice low, gruff. Authoritative. Sam huffs out a laugh and trails a finger around the edge of the table. He snatches up a beer bottle, gives it a shake. They listen to the swish of backwash. Sam tips his head back and swallows. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

            Sam wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. The bottle tilts when he sets it down, wobbling over onto its side. Sam watches it roll off the edge, not bothering to catch it. The dull _clunk_ it makes hitting the ground makes Dean flinch.

            “You’re one to talk.” Sam steps towards him, hand dancing in the space between them. Dean follows his fingers, shying away when they reach for his shoulder. Dean tries not to see the light die in his brother’s eyes. Sam folds his arm against his chest, a bird with a broken wing. “I had to see you.”

            “So what, you decide to show up stinking drunk?” A sudden thought occurs to Dean. He rushes to the window, peels back the curtain to scan the parking lot. “Jesus, Sam, did you _drive_ here?”

            Dean looks at him wild-eyed, but Sam just starts laughing, deep, full-body laughs. Dean shoves him, hard, sending him stepping back to maintain his balance.

            “After everything, you think I’m going to get killed driving drunk?” Sam wipes tears from his eyes, still laughing. Dean’s hand tightens into a fist. “I got into town a couple hours ago, then went to a bar. From which I walked.” Sam hiccups, hand to his chest. When it passes he says, “I had to figure out how to tell you.”

            Dean swallows, throat suddenly dry. He can feel Sam looking at him, the weight of his eyes pressing, hot as a brand. He feels his body stirring, blood sluggish, something heavy in the pit of his stomach. Sam steps closer, hedging Dean in against the wall. “Tell me what?”

            “I saw him.” Sam whispers, but he’s close enough Dean can still hear. Despite himself he watches Sam’s mouth, traces the cracked lines of his lips.

            “Saw who, Sammy?” Dean’s whispering too, afraid to raise his voice, afraid one wrong move will send everything crashing down around them.

            “The Devil.”

            Dean’s eyes snap to Sam’s, hold him in their gaze. Dean ignores the tremor in his hand, the trembling of his leg. All he can hear is his own heartbeat, _boom doom boom doom_ , in his ears.

            “Fuck, Sam…when?” Dean does his best to keep his voice steady, to keep it from cracking like the rest of him.

            “About a week ago.”

            “A we—Christ, Sam! When the fuck were you going to tell me?” Dean knows he’s yelling, knows he should keep his voice down, but nosy neighbors be damned. He’s up in Sam’s face, but now he’s the one avoiding Dean’s eyes, too focused on a scuff on his right shoe.

            “I’m telling you now.”

            “Well what’d he want?” Dean’s breath huffs out his nose, nostrils flared. He digs his nails into the meat of his palms to keep his hands off of Sam. He’s afraid he’ll hit him. Or worse. “Well?”

            “He wants me to be his vessel.”

            It hits Dean like a sucker punch to the chest. All the air rushes out of him, and he’s left gasping. The room spins, and he’s vaguely aware of Sam’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him upright. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His mind reels. He tries again, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

            “Fuck, okay, we got to call Cas, or Bobby, _shit_ , probably best to call both, they’ll   know—”

            “I’m going to say yes.”

            Dean’s stomach drops down around his ankles and he shakes his head, keeps shaking his head, blood draining from his face, convinced he heard Sam wrong, must have, knowing all along that he hadn’t.

            “Sam, no.”

            “And then you’re going to take the Colt and put a bullet in my brain.”

            Dean’s knees go weak as his head snaps up to stare Sam in the face. The hard line of his jaw, the tight press of his mouth, and the dead set of his eyes let Dean know Sam isn’t joking, that he’s one hundred percent serious.

            Dean grabs him by his shirt and whirls him around. He slams him, hard, against the wall. When Sam tries to push up, Dean slams him back again, wedging his forearm under Sam’s chin, up against his throat. Sam wheezes a little, but doesn’t fight him, arms dangling limply by his side. He stares down at Dean.

            “What are you, stupid? Huh? A fucking idiot? Are you fucking _crazy_?” Dean’s face is an inch from Sam’s, so close his eyes go a little cross. He’s shouting, spittle flying, but Sam doesn’t even flinch. Just takes it, like he knows he deserves it, which only makes Dean’s blood boil hotter. “Answer me!”

            “It’s the only way.” Sam’s voice is a strangled groan, but Dean doesn’t let up, if anything only leans in harder to hear. “Dean, it’s the _only_ way to fix the mess I’ve made.”

            Dean’s shaking, with anger and fear and loathing, and something worse. Something far worse. Sam’s red-faced, veins popping out on his temples, but Dean can’t let up, can’t let go or look away or shake the awful, bone-deep worry that maybe, God help him, just maybe Sam is right.

            Sam cups him through his jeans. Dean tries to fly back, but something makes him stay, won’t let him release Sam. Fingers knead imploringly. Dean grits his teeth and feels his body reacting, cock filling with a twitch.

            “Don’t.” Dean spits out the word. “Sam, stop.”

            “Why?” Sam squeezes Dean through his jeans, other hand clawing at the button. “Don’t you want me anymore?” Sam slips a hand inside Dean’s boxers, grabs him, and Dean can’t suppress the moan tripping over his lips. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back as Sam strokes him to hardness. “Don’t you remember Savannah?”

            _Sweltering heat, tourists milling about the auction block, not even a breeze off the water to cool them and carry off the scent of sweat. Another crossroads demon, another dead end, the clock to Hell tick tick ticking away, less than a month left, and they’re getting desperate. The joke’s long been over, and most nights they don’t talk over their burgers and beers, the weight of impending failure looming heavy. And then that night, stolen bottle of Jack, tripping over their own feet on the dunes. The taste of Sam’s mouth, sudden and quick, and they’re tearing off their clothes, right there on the sand, bodies moving in tandem, quick, furtive, push and pull, spilling together, intermingling beneath the crushed velvet of the sky._

_Forty years._

_Hell._

_Lilith._

_Ruby._

_Betrayal._

_Apocalypse._

            Dean remembers everything.

            He backs away, drops his arm from Sam’s throat. Sam draws in a rattling breath, coughs, and sinks to his knees. He hooks his fingers into the waist of Dean’s jeans, tugs them down around his thighs. Dean tries to push him away, but all his strength’s left him. He’s weak, and Sam’s holding him strong, pulling him close, cock in hand, and he looks up at Dean with wide, wet eyes.

            “I miss you.” There’s a sense of finality, of what’s to come, and Dean wants to say something, _anything_ , but then Sam’s taking him in his mouth and words fail him. He shudders, knees quaking, and he threads a hand through Sam’s hair just to have something to hold on to. Sam laves his tongue along the underside of Dean’s cock, suckles the head and laps at his slit. Dean bites his lip to fight a groan, but it tears free anyway. Sam flutters his lips and takes him all the way down to the base, till he’s gagging on it, nearly chocking, spit pooling and dripping down Dean’s balls. Sam can’t breathe, and Dean tries to pull him off, tugging at his hair hard enough to rip it from the scalp, but Sam won’t back off, won’t let go, until Dean shoves him hard enough to send him sprawling against the wall. They’re both gasping, sucking down lungfuls of air. Dean’s dick, slick and glistening, bobs as a pearl of precum falls to the floor.

            Sam sits up onto his knees and pulls his shirt off. He tosses it aside and stands to kick off his pants. Dean watches him. Sam kneels on the bed, weight in his elbows, and spreads his thighs. He buries his face in the mattress.

            Dean’s heart jack-rabbits in its cage, blood pounding in his ears, and he’s dizzy, like the room’s suddenly slanted. He stumbles forward a step, then back, a hand reaching out for his brother, but stopping just short, afraid to touch. Afraid of what he’ll do. Afraid he’ll never stop.

            “I—” Dean swallows around the lump in his throat, tries again. “I don’t have any—”

            “We don’t need them. We don’t need anything. Just.” Sam lifts his face, twists back to look at Dean, but Dean can’t meet his eye. “Please.”

            It feels like falling, the blind rush forward, knees butting up against mattress, calloused hands on his brother’s hip. He spits in his palm, slicks himself up, pushing the tip against the tight muscle of Sam’s hole. Dean grinds his teeth and sinks in, wreathed in the sinful heat of his brother’s body.

            Sam lets out a long, shuddering breath. His hands fist in the sheets, tearing them out from under the mattress. His thighs quake and his back breaks out in a thin sheen of sweat. Dean tries very hard not to move, but he feels him pulsing around his cock, feels his insides squeeze and stretch around him. He tightens his grip, nails biting into the meat of Sam’s flank.

            “Do it.” Sam’s voice, muffled by his arms, comes to Dean’s ears as if from far away. Dean blinks sweat out of his eyes, realizing he is still drunk. He presses a hand to the small of Sam’s back, shifts his hips to steady himself, and Sam keens and arches. “Damn it, Dean, just fuck me already.”

            Something in Dean snaps to obey, pulling halfway out and slamming back in. Sam makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan, like he’s just been punched in the gut. Dean wants to stop, wants to ask if he’s okay, but Sam pushes up onto his elbows and thrusts his ass back, urging, begging, and Dean’s body moves without conscious control.

            It’s bruising, their pace, an elbow across Sam’s shoulders to hold him down, to give Dean leverage as he lifts his hips and drives into him again and again and again and again and again and—

            “ _Fuck_.” It’s a wet, sobbing sound, Sam’s face screwed up shut, biting his lip so hard the skin bursts and bleeds. Muscle memory long since kicked in—Dean moves on instinct, angling so the head of his cock drags across Sam’s prostate and his baby brother shakes beneath him. They’re both breathing fast, frantic pants gulped down in greedy little sips. Dean’s head swims, gone a little dizzy, hands sliding over the sweat-slick swell of Sam’s ass, grabbing him, spreading him, pushing in deeper, _deeper_ , deep as he can go.

            Sam mewls and whines, the sound driving into Dean’s brain like an icepick, gouging out the rational voice screaming at him to _stop, no, can’t, wrong_. He covers Sam’s mouth with his hand, twists his face away. The muscles in his legs burn, front of his calves aching from where he’s standing on his tiptoes for leverage. His whole body feels on fire, balls tucked up tight, heat coiling and uncoiling in his belly.

            Sam says something, voice muffled by Dean’s fingers, the words lost beneath the wet smack of Dean’s hips. Dean looks down at his brother, sweat-soaked strands of hair plastered to his forehead, sees the wet shimmer in his eyes.

            Dean jerks back, coming. He stumbles, ropes of cum shooting through the air, smattering across Sam’s thigh, the mattress, the floor. Without his hand to smother them, Sam’s sobs break like thunder. Bile burns its way up Dean’s throat. He crashes into the bathroom, winces as his knees smack into the linoleum. He barely has time to lift the lid before he’s throwing up into the toilet with a wet splash. His shoulders shake with the force of his grip on the bowl. He throws up till he empties his stomach, till he’s dry weaving and weak.

            A foul, acidic taste clings to the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat. He wipes his lips on his forearm, stands on shaky knees. He leans over the sink, cupping his hands and rinsing out his mouth. He spits, swallows a small mouthful.

            When Dean stumbles back out he finds the room empty. He never heard the door open or close. Dean blinks and rubs at his eyes like he’d just woken from a dream, wondering if he’d made the whole thing up. But then he spies a stray sock under the bed and he knows it was all true.

            He should call Bobby. Call Cas. He needs to warn them, they need to make a plan. He knows he should run out after Sam, should find him and keep him and hold him close, make him understand, make him forgive him, but for what Dean can’t say.

            But he’s tired, bone-deep ache all through his body, and his head pounds with blood and beer. He doesn’t want to run anymore. He sinks onto the mattress, just for a second, just to catch his breath and rest. His face itches and the light hurts his eyes, so he flicks it off. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

            All night he dreams of fire and screaming and the devil wearing his brother’s skin.


End file.
